


Hearts Beneath the Moon

by Escalus



Series: The Wolves at War - A Teen Wolf/Game of Thrones Fusion [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Class Differences, F/M, M/M, Politics, Prostitution, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escalus/pseuds/Escalus
Summary: The War of Five Kings has begun in earnest.   The residents of the sleepy little harbor village of Beacon Hills have had their lives disrupted by a game of revenge which pitted the remnants of House Hale, a family older then the Starks of Winterfell, against members of House Argent, whose ruthless head sits on Tywin Lannister's war council.  Peter Hale gained his bloody revenge against Lady Katherine, but in doing so he dragged the guilty and innocent alike into danger, scattering childhood friends and loving families across Westeros while bringing strangers to Beacon Hills.This fiction has been abandoned.  See Chapter 4 for details.





	1. The North Remembers (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> This story places the story and characters of Teen Wolf in the Game of Thrones world. It adapts the story line to the rules of that world. The story focuses primarily on the Teen Wolf characters but characters from both shows will appear and be important to the plot. Chapters will indicate approximately what episode of the Game of Thrones television show the action takes place in. The ratings and warnings and tags will change as the story changes. Please enjoy!
> 
> This is the second part coinciding with Game of Thrones Season 2. It is not absolutely necessary to read the first part (Game of Thrones Season 1) _Ashes Below the Moon_ but it would be very helpful.
> 
> I own neither the characters or plots from Teen Wolf or Game of Thrones. This was created for my own and others' enjoyment.

**Scott**

Standing on the prow of a wretched coastal trader, Scott prayed to the Seven that he would never have to sail on a ship like this again. The Gods, it seemed, were not without irony. His father was a sailor — a captain! — in the Royal Fleet, so perhaps it might be expected that Scott would have a taste for ocean travel. Instead, he had found the month-long voyage from Eastwatch-By-The-Sea a terrible experience he would never wish on his greatest enemy. The food was terrible: tasteless, cheap, and frequent riddled with mold. The conditions had been so cramped that he had slept in the cabin with his companion, no matter how awkward and indiscreet, rather than brave the dingy lower deck. The sailors were little better than brigands who knew how to swim. And while he may have inherited his sea legs from his father as he was never sick even during the infrequent storms, he had to take care of the Lady Allison, who had spent nearly every waking hour ranging from slightly queasy to incapacitated by waves of vomit.

If they hadn’t had sold their horses for passage on this barnacle-encrusted wreck-waiting-to-happen, he would have insisted they disembark at the Fingers and ride the rest of the way to the capital, war or no war.

But, after weeks of misery, they had made it to their destination. The waters of Blackwater Bay, thankfully, were placid and calm and filled with more ships than he had seen during the entire trip put together. He wondered, momentarily, if one of the ships that they had passed could have been his father’s. Eventually, though his eye was drawn to the horizon and the great mass that occupied it: King’s Landing. To someone who had never been in a city of more than a thousand people in his entire life, the size of it was beyond comprehension. It was said a half-a-million people lived there. 

Rising above the teeming city was the Red Keep. Towering above the waters of the bay, Scott had never seen anything like it before. The castles of the North seemed ugly and squat and the construction of the Wall a brutish thing compared to the majesty of the seat of the Lord of the Andals and the First Men. It was so awe-inspiring that he felt his pulse quicken. He wished that sea travel agreed with Allison enough so that she could see this — though she probably had been in King’s Landing before. More than that, he wished that Stiles was standing right next to him. 

That thought made his heart ache. When they were children, they had always wanted to see the world, but as Scott grew older, his desire for it faded. Eventually, he realized that he didn’t care to leave Beacon Hills, while Stiles had clung tightly to his longing for adventure. Now, Scott was at the heart of the entire continent of Westeros, and Stiles was trapped back home. He would write to his best friend as soon as he could afford some parchment and try to give Stiles as clear a vision of the great city as weak skills could.

He was still smiling at awesome sight of King’s Landing when the wind shifted. The stench was nearly overwhelming — the refuse all those people corrupting the air and the water. 

“Don’t worry,” Lady Allison said, joining him. “You’ll get used to it soon enough.” 

“Are you sure you should be up?” Scott offered her his arm. She still seemed a little green around the gills, but she refused his support anyway. 

“I couldn’t spend another moment in that cabin, not with the city so close.” She looked resolute. “If the captain doesn’t land soon, I will throw him overboard and take the ship for myself.”

Scott smiled at her fierceness, though he was no longer new to it. Even while sick, Lady Allison had proved herself more than capable of protecting herself from lecherous sailors. All Scott had had to do was keep an eye on her back and not let her get surrounded. He was glad to have been able to render that small service. 

Their eagerness translated into them being the first off the boat when the plank was extended. Scott carried their packs, far lighter than they had been when they had left the Shadow Tower. He followed her down streets cobbled with stones cut for that purpose. He must have looked like a yokel, gawking at all the people from across the world, milling about at the docks. He thought that he had seen so many different types of people visit the harbor of Beacon Hills, but it was nothing compared to the complexity of King’s Landing.

The moods of the people crowded between the buildings were oddly exuberant. While people were still working, there were a lot more people celebrating than Scott expected. It didn’t take them long to find out that today was King Joffrey’s name day, and jubilation had been decreed among the people, though it seemed only a few could really afford to skip a day of labor. 

As they walked, there were more and more people and more and more buildings, and it was quite bewildering.

“Lady Allison?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you know your way around the city, because I am lost already.”

She laughed, openly. She had a wonderful laugh that made Scott smile, even if she was laughing at him. They had returned to the initial closeness they had enjoyed when she had first arrived at Beacon Hills, before Ser Jackson’s jealousy had ruined it. In fact, they were closer. They had traveled together, fought together, found safety together. 

Scott was more in love with her than he had been when he had been first been smitten dumb in her presence. She was beautiful beyond compare, yet strong and practical. During the long hours of boredom on the ship while he had watched over her, he had daydreamed about somehow becoming worthy of her hand. It was very foolish. He’d never become a great _anything,_ so he’d never be a knight or a lord, and so he could never have what he wanted.

What hurt worse is that Scott believed she felt the same way about him. She trusted him even in her most vulnerable moments. She told him stories of her growing up, of her life in the Westerlands, of her parents and family, and of her friends. She wouldn’t have told a simple kennel master these things. And sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her looking at him so intently that he blushed. 

But that was all that had happened. He had never put himself forward for anything more than holding her hand when she crossed unstable ground, and she had never asked for more. Scott would not have denied her if she had expressed a desire for them to make love, even if it had only been for a night. It would be better than never knowing her touch. Yet she hadn’t, and he couldn’t help but admire her for it. Perhaps she still remembered the advice her late aunt had given her. Allison had told him one night on the road that Lady Katherine had suggested she take Scott as her lover. He had nearly choked to death, but she had made it clear that she would never take advantage of him like that.

She had meant it to be reassuring, but it was instead agony.

“So we’re headed toward your father’s home?” 

“No. First, we’ll be going to the Lower Market.”

They walked through the crowded, trash-filled, exciting streets, and Scott was glad that Lady Allison had a good sense of direction. Of course she did — she was a hunter. The Lower Market lay closest to the docks on purpose, even though Scott wouldn’t have been able to find. Booth after booth held visiting merchant’s wares — especially those which were perishable that came from lands far away from the city. He had never seen so many people in one place before with so many things. 

Scott let out a whistle in wonderment.

“It’s busier than normal,” Allison observed. “Must be the war.”

He had almost forgotten about it. Every one of his companions — Lady Allison, Ser Jackson, and even Stiles — had been worried about how the war would affect their families. But it seemed so strange and distant to him. 

They stopped at a vendors of herbs. Allison gestured. “Get what you need.”

“What I need?”

“You ran out of moonflower three weeks ago. You’ve been trying to hide it from me, but, frankly, you’re not very good at it. Stiles told me before we left that you had to take it, so you’re getting what your lungs need.”

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Lady Allison shook her head and pointed to the stall. Scott turned to find the moonflower, but he allowed himself a very small smile as he did so. He knew she had come to care about him, but she had come to care about him so much she was aware of the little things. He took a bag of moonflower that should last him a month. “Here.”

“And two more.” She thrust some of their last coins to the merchant. Lady Allison raised an eyebrow, daring him to object.

Chastened, he took the bags and walked behind her. They passed through the Mud Gate and enter the city proper. Scott fell back, so he was walking a little behind her. Allison frowned but said nothing. It was a subtle reminder that they had come to a place where the distance between their statuses mannered. 

“This road is called the Hook,” she said as they turned towards the hill on which the Red Keep sat. 

“You don’t live there, do you?”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “Grandfather has a manse at the foot of Aegon’s Hill. ‘Close enough to be useful, but not close enough to be arrogant,’ he describes it. Most of the time, my father lives there with a few servants.”

Scott wasn’t in a hurry to meet either Lady Allison’s grandfather or her father. Stiles had taught him that Gerard, the Lion’s Shadow, sat on Lord Tywin’s council, and he was rumored to be the person that the head of House Lannister turned to when the business that needed to be done was too bloody even for him. It was obvious to Scott, given Lady Katherine’s attitude, that the plan to take the Hale Lands had been Gerard’s. As for Ser Christopher, Allison swore that he was nothing like her grandfather or her aunt, but then again, she had been surprised by her relatives’ underhanded dealings in the North. There was also the matter that Ser Christopher might resent that his wife was now the Starks’ hostage at Winterfell.

Lady Allison walked with purpose through the streets, but she did take time to point out the highlights of the city, just as Scott and Stiles had done for her in Beacon Hills. There was a lot more to talk about in the capital.

The Argent Manse was a three stories tall, with balconies and a rooftop garden. Allison called it modest; she probably didn’t realize that it was the biggest building that wasn’t a castle that Scott had ever seen, let alone had gone inside. He’d never ever own something this grand. He wouldn’t want to.

The servant who answered the door recognized Allison, and the well-dressed man seemed genuinely happy to see her. He quickly informed her that Ser Christopher was at the Red Keep participating in the tournament in honor of King Joffrey. He probably would not be back until after nightfall. The servant than turned his eyes on Scott, and they narrowed in suspicion. 

“I didn’t even realize,” Allison shook her head. “I should have known better. Are my quarters still available?”

“Of course, Lady Allison.”

“I have been traveling for some time, so I’d like to have a bath and eat something before my father returns. Can you arrange that? And could you see that Scott has a room made for him?”

“In the servant’s quarters?”

Scott felt the elation he had experienced since arriving in the capital flee. He’d gotten too used to the closeness with Lady Allison. He was, indeed, a servant. Lady Allison paused before answering, so Scott had a chance to interrupt.” 

“Yeah. I’m probably won’t be used to all your fancy rooms, anyway.”

The man led him to the servant’s wing. Unlike the rest of the house, this was busy as it was the middle of the afternoon. There were grooms and footmen and maids doing their daily chores.

“You’re from the North, I take it?” The servant who had greeted Allison was a gruff man. He was maybe ten years older, beardless, and he wore his thinning hair tied behind him. 

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do for the Argents in Beacon Hills?” The man obviously know where the family he served was located at all times. All the best servants knew more than they said and said less than they knew. 

“I was in charge of the kennels.”

The man nods. “Unfortunately, we don’t have dogs here in King’s Landing. I’ll talk with Ser Christopher.” 

Scott nodded but inside, he realized that not only had they reached his destination, but he also didn’t quite know what he was going to do next. He was useless here. He would have to wait on what the Lady Allison and her father decided.

**********

Scott stared at the remains of the small meal he had eaten in his chambers. He had succeeded in what he had set out to do — make sure the Lady Allison had been safely returned to her family in the South. Yet now, he found himself at loose ends. Part of him wanted to return immediately home, to his mother, to his dogs, to Stiles. Yet would that even be possible?

He didn’t have the money for a ship to take him back to the North, not even to White Harbor. And if he got there, it would be nearly seven hundred miles as the crow flies to Beacon Hills. He’d have to cross the North with no horse and little money. 

He told himself once again that it had been the right thing to do. That didn’t comfort him right now.

At least the quarters Ulrich had given him, even if they weren’t that much bigger than his hut back in Beacon Hills, were definitely more impressive. His quarters were on the second floor of the servant’s wing. Its window overlooked the manse’s lower courtyard rather than the city outside. He could see the stables and the maids beating out the rugs. The window possessed a shutter against the rain or the winter wind. The chair, table, and chest were all more delicate and finely made than any he had ever seen. Instead of a cot, he would sleep on a real bed with a straw-stuffed mattress and a pillow.

The meal was lighter than what he had been used to at home. It consisted of gruel, a dried apple, and long slivers of baked chicken. Meals in Beacon Hills were usually heavier: roasted mutton and goat or fish in creamy broth. No matter what, it was one hundred times better than anything he had had to eat on the ship, so he picked at the little bits that were left with relish.

He had put the plates by the door as he had been instructed and was cleaning up with the pitcher and bowl when the door opened. Ulrich, the head servant, appeared. He hadn’t knocked; maybe they didn’t do that down here, but in the North, you knocked before you entered anyone’s room, even a fishmonger’s. 

“Ser Christopher and Lady Allison would like to see you in the sunset dining hall.”

Scott reached for the towel that had been provided near the pitcher. “Will you show me where that is?”

Ulrich turned and walked away, leaving Scott to follow after him. “Each of the members of the family have their own suite on the third floor of the central house. The second floor of the house consists of audience chambers and dining halls — they stink less that way. We call this side of the hallway the sunrise side and that sunset side, for obvious reasons. When we put you to work, you’ll be expected to know your way around.”

Scott didn’t protest that he didn’t know if he planned to stay or even if Ser Christopher would want him around. Maybe he was about to find out.

Allison and her father waited for him in an understated room with a long dining room table. The Argents favored gray tapestries and brick furnishings, none of which were highly ornamented. 

Ser Christopher sat at the head of the table. His hair was close cropped and his dress somber. When he, he kept his hands rigidly by his side and his gazed completely focused on to whom he was speaking. Allison sat to his right. She gave Scott a smile when he came in but it was shyer than usual. Her entire demeanor had changed around her father. She was less outgoing and more passive.

“You’re the young man who helped my daughter escape from enemy lands and brought her safely home. She told me your name is Scott. Do you have a surname?”

“Scott McCall, sir.”

The knight smiled but it did not reach his eyes. He did not seem angry at Scott but more at the thought of his daughter having to escape from anything. “You were Ser Whittemore’s kennel master. He has remained loyal to the Starks.”

“Yes, sir.” Scott shifted nervously. 

“By law, that makes you a rebel in the eyes of the king.” Ser Christopher leaned forward. Allison made a surprised noise in the back of her throat and turned to her father. She hadn’t expected that any more than Scott had expected it.

“I … I don’t know.” He had never wished he was back in Beacon Hills more than he did at that point.

“It was very brave of you to leave your home for a foreign lady.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Sit.” The knight gestured at the table. “You’ve probably already eaten, but you’ll have a glass of wine with us?”

Scott had never been asked to sit at the Whittemore’s table, so he was shocked, but he did as he was bid. He nodded, because who was he to refuse such hospitality. 

Allison turned her eyes back down to her plate. “I have already told my father what happened with my mother and with my aunt, and with Lord Peter Hale. I have already told him how I renounced my engagement to Ser Jackson.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Scott said immediately to Ser Christopher. 

“She was trying to kill you.” 

“I know.” Scott looked the knight in the eyes. “I’m glad she didn’t, but she was still your family.”

The knight met his gaze. He seemed to be evaluating him. “I have to be honest, not only because, as you said, it is the right thing to do, but even more so since I owe you a debt. The matter of your allegiance is a very complex subject at the moment. I’m quite sure that the Warden of the North will recognize the truth about the destruction of Hale House, so our claim to it will mostly likely be refused by them. On the other hand, if the Crown wins this war, our claim will most likely be reinforced.” 

Scott felt like a child for a second, holding that goblet like it was a toy. “I don’t know what to say.”

“My daughter told me your father is a captain in the Royal Navy.” 

“He is.” Scott hoped beyond hope he wouldn’t have to go to his father. 

“I’m sorry to say that most of the Royal Navy has joined with Stannis Baratheon in open rebellion against the throne.”

Scott didn’t know what to feel. He wasn’t close to his father, but that didn’t sound good for him. “I’ve not seen him for nearly a year.”

Ser Christopher’s eyes bore into him. “I understand your situation, but I’m not sure that others in the capital will care much. As I said, I owe you a great deal since you saw my daughter safely home, but I think it’s very important that _you_ understand that you should tell no one in King’s Landing details of what happened in the North or who your father is — at least until we know if joined the king’s uncle.” He picked up his knife and fork to continue eating. “What I will do is offer you a place here until the war is over and you can chose whether you wish to return home.”

“Thank you, ser.” 

Ser Christopher nodded. “It will be important for you to simply be Scott. You also might find the way servants work here in the south is different in the north. However, I’m sure that Ulrich will be able to help you get settled in.”

“How long do you think that this war might last?” 

The knight pursed his lips; considering it a reasonable question. “The entire North marches on the capital. Both of the late king’s brothers have claimed the throne. A white raven came from the citadel today, meaning this summer is over. I couldn’t possibly give anyone an accurate prediction.”

**Victoria**

Victoria frowned as she slowly picked apart her needlework from the evening before. It wasn’t satisfactory. If there was anything that would put her in a sour mood, it was to be confronted with wasted effort. Months of time spent as a hostage of the Starks in Winterfell has given her many reasons to be bitter, but no more than when it frequently reminded her of exactly how much effort she — and her family — had made to secure Beacon Hills. Every day that passed made it more and more likely that all that effort would be for nothing.

And it would have been worth it to succeed. Aside from the wealth that it would have earned the family, it would have made Victoria happy personally that she could have placed Allison far away from Gerard’s influence. Sheer distance would have made Allison more resistant to his manipulation and less likely to be the target of his orders. Allison would have been rich, safe, and productive running that port town. 

And she suspect that Allison would have been happy. Ser Jackson had had unrealistic dreams, but he did seem the type to care for his wife. 

Victoria Argent would never let anyone, noble or common, imply publicly that she disliked being a member of House Argent. It would be insulting. But most people would never believe such a statement. Why would she possibly dislike it? She had a devoted and respected husband, even though she saw far too little of him, and a talented daughter waiting to bloom into full adulthood. She had power in her own right, and she shared in the family’s reputation. What else could a woman of ambition want?

Secretly though, she despised the rest of the Argent family. The Lion’s Shadow saw his family as nothing more than his personal army, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use that army for his own advantage. Weren’t the horrific and despicable commands he gave to Katherine proof of that? Wasn’t the idea that he had sent Katherine on a secret mission which endangered Victoria’s daughter proof of that? Gerard had no limits to his own ambition. Certainly not morality, and definitely not loyalty. The only reason he served Tywin Lannister faithfully is because Tywin was the only person of whom Gerard was afraid. Tywin saw through Gerard’s stratagems with enough ease that it made her father-in-law uncomfortable. 

Victoria knew that her life, her husband’s life, and Allison’s life meant nothing to the man if sacrificing them got him what he wanted. So yes, she did dislike her own family. 

Beacon Hills would have been a perfect way to protect the people she cared about from the manipulations of Casterly Rock, King’s Landing, and Lockwood. And now, hope withered to nothing due to this terrible war which saw her locked up in Winterfell. Instead of an Argent, Ser Noah’s intelligent but rather odd son was Castellan over Beacon Hills while the Whittemores and his father served in the armies of Robb Stark. 

Even Victoria had to admit that the chaos that was blossoming across Westeros would be very dangerous no matter where she was. As she plied her needle in the Great Hall of Winterfell, she watched one of the causes of the war. On the outside, Bran Stark was nothing more than a bored little boy, scratching at a tabletop while his vassals came to request assistance from him. Yet, she had to admit the boy was holding up remarkably well for someone whose father had been executed, whose mother had been gone for months, and who had recently survived a crippling fall and the attempt of an assassin to take his life.

She had talked to Brandon Stark almost once a day since his brother had ridden off to war. They were always simple, short conversations. While he was inexperienced and emotional, she had no desire to manipulate him, and his mentor, Maester Luwin, was far too savvy for her to attempt it. She had given her word, and she intended to keep it, no matter how tedious and frustrating being a hostage would turn out to be.

Today was the day when the Lord of Winterfell held audience for his vassals to come before him. Lesser lords — all men past their fighting ages — and the castellans of lords now far away at the war, all waited patiently in the line. In times of peace, even with the true rulers of Winterfell and the North present, there wouldn’t be near this many audience seekers. It was only when bad times struck, such as now with the end of summer and the beginning of a struggle for the crown, that they would make the trek to the capital. Fear could be a powerful motivator. 

It also shifted priorities. What was once minor in the hazy, warm days now became major in the face of the approaching winter. Sitting in the audience room, Victoria tried to refocus on her embroidery. She needed something to do that required her concentration, or she would get caught up in the petitions and the resulting discussions. They were, frankly, none of her business.

Several of the petitioners must have recognized her or believed they recognized her. The funnies thing would be they would consider her a Southern hostage, and most of them would not be able to place House Argent or its particular significance. Some gave her vicious looks fueled by partisanship, but most politely ignored her. She expected no less. While the Northmen could be violent and uncouth, their culture didn’t make antagonizing a conquered enemy a virtue. Often, hostages would become part of the family; after all, she had heard that Ned Stark himself had raised Balon Greyjoy’s youngest son almost as his own child. She had no fear for her own safety in Winterfell, since she planned to be patient and not do anything foolish and try to escape across 1500 miles of hostile territory and wars. 

Captivity wouldn’t be painless. Aside from the boredom, she was in charge of her family’s small amount of trade, and most of that trade would fall by the wayside with her trapped here. However, she had never been a spendthrift, not like Kate, and so the family could withstand the loss of her hard work for a little while at least. Their vassals had plenty of food stored for the coming lean years of winter. She would find something to occupy her time, since her captors responded to her integrity with their own.

She was far more concerned with the safety of her family. Maester Luwin had shown her the messages from the Shadow Tower, from Ser Jackson, and from Castellan Stilinski. Katherine was dead, and while it was a loss, she wasn’t that broken up about it. Her daughter, however, had fled across the Gift and towards Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, seeking to find a way home by ship. It was a good plan; Victoria was proud. She may have preferred that her daughter had joined her, but she couldn’t help but admire her daughter’s bravery and determination. 

It did not stop her from longing for a raven from home, telling her that Allison had made it back safely. 

Victoria was as much worried for her husband as she was for her child. While Ser Christopher usually stayed in King’s Landing, he was still a knight of no small repute. He could be asked to take the field against the Starks or Stannis or Renly at any time. With each new victory won by the Young Wolf, that became more and more likely. She had plenty of faith in her husband; she knew his measure better than anyone else. Yet his skill, his intelligence, and his experience in war mattered not in the slightest before the eyes of the Stranger. Death could take a soldier through many sordid and meaningless ways: a stray arrow, the water sickness, falling into a stream while clad in armor. He didn’t have to be on the battlefield to succumb to war, and if that happened and she would never see him again. All the work they had done together, all the love they had shared, and it would be gone without even them saying another word to each other. Such a waste.

War was an invention of men, their pathetic answer to resolving conflicts. She despised how too often it would destroy the very things over which it had been started. She despised the waste.


	2. The North Remembers (Part 2)

**Stiles**

Stiles had to admit that power felt good. He had never imagined that he would possess any in his life, but for once he was pleasantly surprised with what the Gods had in store for him. Surrounded by a crowd of eager villagers, he sat high and proud in his saddle. He could almost imagine what he looked like, though there was a small part of him that worried he looked like a fool. The men and women around him were armed, not with weapons, but with tools — mostly hammers and saws. They waited patiently for his command to begin their work.

“I, Stiles Stilinski, Castellan of Beacon Hills, in the name of Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte and the King in the North, order that this building be torn down to its foundations and that the materials freed thereby and all contents within be shared among the general populace of Beacon Hills in preparation for winter.” He spoke as loudly and as clearly as he could. After all, he was making a point.

“You can’t do this!” The tavern keeper clinging to his stirrups was unsurprisingly not a supporter of his decision. The balding, greasy man was not born in Beacon Hills, but he had lived here for over a decade. He possessed a bad reputation, so unsurprisingly he had little support.

Stiles looked down on him and smiled benignly. “I think you’ll find that I just did.” 

Not a single person in the mob hesitated, surging forward. The possibility of free lumber to repair their own homes for the coming winter — or even the availability of free firewood — would not be resisted too greatly. Several of the stronger men had already climbed the walls so they could start tearing the roof. Most of the other workers were older men and younger boys, though there were even a few women eager to earn their share. If most of the fighting-age men hadn’t been off with Ser Noah and Ser David, it would have been a different story.

“I will go to Lord Glover! I’ll go to Lord Stark!” 

“You mean King Robb? By all means, be my guest. I’d estimate that right now they are anywhere between fifteen to twenty-five leagues south of the Twins. If you hurry, you could get there within a month.” Stiles continued mocking the tavern keeper by scratching his chin thoughtfully. “If you’re very persuasive and when they’re done fighting their war against the Lannisters, they might come back and ask me why I had your rat trap torn down. Or you might cut to the chase and tell them why I did it. Do you remember why I’m having it torn down?”

The tavern keeper scowled but kept his peace. 

“I suspect by your silence that you don’t remember or that you don’t want to tell them my side of the story. I would tell them that Lady Katherine Argent, an agent of House Argent, hired men in your establishment to kill a Northern knight and steal Northern land for their own use. Considering that any use by House Argent would benefit House Lannister, I suspect that they might not to look too fondly on you.”

“She didn’t hire me! I’m innocent of anything she chose to do.” 

“No, she didn’t hire you personally. But every single hireling she employed spent time in your tavern; I know that for a fact; I recognized their faces as they tried to kill me. I also know that you took her gold. And I _also_ know that you took their traitors’ gold. Yet, you stand here telling me that your eyes were so blind and your ears were so deaf that you had no idea what was transpiring.” As the man stumbled over his tongue to think of an answer, Stiles twisted the knife. “We both know the real answer, of course; it pays for you to not listen. It pays for you not to care. I should be more specific, it _paid._ Criminals plotted treason under your roof; if criminals plotted treason under my roof, what would the Lords of the North call me?”

“I don’t know, milord.”

“I’d be called a traitor.” Stiles took a very small bag of silver out of his shirt and threw it at the man, who caught with the skill only an experienced barkeep would have. 

“What’s this for?”

“Traveling money, traitor. Today, I’m tearing down that infested flea-pit you call a tavern, but tomorrow, if I find you in the lands of Beacon Hills, I’ll have you flogged.” Stiles nodded again. “Every other dawn that finds you here, will see you flogged once again. Now instead of spending your time bandying with me, maybe you should get a move on. There’s only so much sunlight for you to use.”

The man turned on his heels and fled. Stiles hoped that he’d keep running. For all his words, the thought of having someone flogged made him queasy. He suspected he’d have to do it at least once, but he’d like to put it off as long as possible.

Stiles turned back to where the people were beginning the demolition in earnest. He watched them but not with much interest; he trusted them to do a good job in their own time. Instead, his interest had been piqued by the realization that Maester Alan was standing at his elbow. 

“This particular move is unprecedented.” The maester said with his usual calm, as if he hadn’t appeared next to Stiles like a traveling magician entertaining a crowd. 

The castellan snorted to cover his own discomfort. “Is it really?”

“The annexation of property has never been a popular punishment above the Neck. The North is bigger than all the other six kingdoms put together, and it is the least populated. Huge swathes of forests and plains and hills have never been worked by any human being’s hands. As a consequence, the rulers here have never developed a taste for taking a free man’s property as a forfeit.” 

“I will take your word for it.” The truth was that Stiles had read in his own books for anything happening like this before. “I don’t know any precedent that contradicts your words. But neither is there a law against it, is there, maester?”

Alan looked at him as if he was remembering all of his reading. “In my memory, no, there is not.”

“I thought so. I did not do this lightly. This place has been a front for smugglers, a meeting place for criminals, and an eyesore for the entire town. Publicly tearing it down and driving the owner away sends a message.”

“What message would that be?”

“That Beacon Hills will not be a launching point for schemes against the King in the North, House Stark, or any of their vassals.”

“A clever stratagem, Castellan.”

The title out of Maester Alan’s mouth made him blush. Was this respect? “I may have had an ulterior motive.” 

“Do tell.”

Stiles moved away from the crowd, motioning for the maester to follow them until they were almost entirely out of ear shot. “I’m sure you’ll understand, given your recent involvement in espionage …” 

Maester Alan raised both eyebrows.

Stiles smirked. “I may not be as experience as my father, but I am far from a fool. Someone had to have let Peter Hale know about the Argents coming to Beacon Hills, maester. I doubt that they get much gossip north of the Wall. I talk to Malia Pyke extensively.” Stiles hoped his bland face signaled that he wasn’t going to worry about the ramifications of that accusation. “So if you were to become further involved in espionage, and you decided that you wanted to place or communicate with spies and saboteurs in the North, what location would serve your purposes the best?”

The maester nodded, catching on. “A port without a strong central authority.”

“The question of who holds these lands as vassal probably won’t be fully settled until the war’s over. That could take years. Was what I just did heavy handed? Yeah, probably, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. Because I know that that man and everyone who knew him is going to spread the story of what happened here today. People will think twice before trying to use us. That, I think, is more than enough justification for doing something unprecedented.”

“I see. It’s a bold move, Stiles.”

Stiles leaned down in the saddle to make sure no one else could hear him. “Honestly, I think all I have are bold moves. Honestly, another reason I did this is to demonstrate to the villagers that they didn’t make a mistake putting me in charge. I need them to trust me for as long as I am Castellan.”

“It seems a good first step, if a little dramatic.”

“Scott has always told me I am too dramatic for my own good. You’ll let me know if you think I’m being overly bold, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Speaking of my friend, is there any word?” He straightened back up on the horse and caught the eyes of some the workers before nodding him. His role here was to give the whole preceding an aura of legality.

“No, Castellan. But it is nothing about which you should be concerned. Even if their trip suffered no delays, and they made the best time conceivable through wilderness and sea, they could only have reached King’s Landing within the last week at the earliest. Who knows when a raven will be able to bring even major news to use from King’s Landing? We might not hear from them for many months.”

Stiles hated the fact that his friend wasn’t right here with him. He trusted Maester Alan and valued his advice, but it wasn’t the same without Scott’s presence. While he tried to appear confident, tearing down this tavern was a risk, and while he could brass the consequences out with the best of them, he would love to have someone by his side who supported his decisions no matter what. Scott would do that for him, even without Stiles asking.

To be honest, it had been a shock when Scott had announced that he was going to escort the Lady Allison back home. Maybe Stiles should have argued more about it, but he hadn’t. He was still stunned by the argument between Scott and him about freedom. Scott had had a point — Stiles could become a knight; Scott would most likely remain a commoner. It had never occurred to Stiles before that he had more choices in his life than Scott did, and that he would always have more choices. They’d been friends forever, and the idea that such a reality could come between them made Stiles unsettled. Yet there was little he could do about it now. 

Stiles watched the tavern vanish under the determined hands of the townspeople. By the Seven, he hoped a raven came soon.

**Boyd**

Boyd watched from an upper window as the villagers demolished the building, like ants working at a nest. If this had been the village in which he was born, he would have been down there helping them. Hell, if the crew of the ship on board which he had sailed to the North was down there, he would have been helping. But those people were neither his neighbors nor his crew; they belonged here, in Beacon Hills, and he didn’t.

He was so tired of not belonging.

He didn’t even belong in this house. The noble family that owned this home had fled the city. By reports, they had come to a bad end: one had died, one was held prisoner at Winterfell, and one had escaped into the wilderness. He had learned about the Argents and their involvement in the history of House Hale. It had taken him a while to piece it all together, but now he understood the intricacies of Peter Hale’s plan and why he had done what he had to Boyd. The thought-dead Hale had tried to disguise his attempt at revenge against the Argents as an Ironborn raid. To that end, he had had his daughter recruit scum whom no one would miss in the Iron Islands and then made sure their bodies would be found. Boyd had simply and unfortunately been mistaken for scum. 

In the long nights as he recovered from his wounds, Boyd had told himself that he should have suspected something was wrong, given the quality of the other sailors, their destination and their craft. You’d have to be a pretty wretched Ironborn for a captain of the Iron Fleet not to want to hire you, but all of his colleagues had been desperate to sign on any ship. Those men had demonstrated their laziness and ineptitude, while, not to sound boastful, Boyd overmatched any of them in any nautical skill. Which was why Malia Pyke had needed to hire him; none of those fools could navigate a boat, especially not across the Icy Sea and up the Milkwater to where it reached the gorge beneath the Wall. With such a dangerous voyage, he should have asked more questions, yet he had been so eager to get off the Iron Islands that he had jumped at the chance.

There was, of course, a silver lining to the cloud of his mistakes. He was no longer trapped on the Iron Islands, and he had survived Peter Hale’s revenge spree with only a long and painful scar across his back. Beacon Hills wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the worst place in the world to be laid up in. At least, not yet.

Even hidden away in this abandoned house, he had learned about the war that had come to Westeros. Most of the men of fighting age in Beacon Hills had already marched off following the King in the North. He supposed that if he had been home, he would have been expected to either follow King Renly or King Joffrey. Honestly, he would have probably chosen a side by now, because that is what young men are supposed to do: commoners serve as soldiers for their lord’s battles.

If he didn’t want to celebrate his escape from the Iron Islands, he could decide to be worried about his future instead. The Castellan might consider him an invader or a criminal, even though he had been assured that Stiles would never do that. Even if he was safe form consequences of Peter’s plan, he still needed to find work somewhere in the village because while he was back on the mainland, he didn’t have enough coin to make it home. But in the end, he neither worried about the future nor anxious to leave; he was happy for the strangest reason.

Boyd thought he was in love. 

The path to that realization was easy to follow. Erica had pulled him out of the water. She had hidden him from those who had tried to kill him and those who might want to punish him. She had nursed him back to health. She had fed him and clothed him. She had done all of that, hampered by her own problems and without expectation of reward. 

Yet, she had done far more; she had kept him company. She had listened to the stories of his homeland, and he had listened to her stories of Beacon Hills. He never felt lonely when she was around, and the days didn’t seem long as he waited to heal. 

Boyd found himself missing her when she was away. He found himself thinking about what he should do for her to entice her to stay with him. 

One night, she had had an attack of her mysterious ailment. It had scared him when the fit began, and he had only been able to hold her through it, even though she wasn’t aware of him doing so when she came to. It wasn’t anything to be frightened of, because when the attack had passed, she had been weak and trembling but she had still herself. The only thing she had asked of him was to go fetch a particular woman in village whom Erica trusted and could help her. 

The next morning he had gone and brought back to the house the village midwife and healer. Her name was Melissa, and she was very kind but yet she also possessed the no-nonsense attitude that most healers he had known adopted over time. Erica had warned him that she would probably be tenses and suspicious, because the only reliable member of her family — her son — had fled with the former owners of their house far away. 

Melissa had taught him what he could do for Erica when she had one of her fits. It wasn’t much, but it could help her recover more quickly and more safely. Then Melissa had had noticed how he was moving and made him lift up his shirt. Without a trace of suspicion, the woman had observed, “That’s a sword wound.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do I want to know how you got it?”

“Probably not, ma’am.”

“You should have brought him to me immediately,” Melissa scolded Erica. “This is going to scar a lot worse than it should have.”

Erica opened her mouth to defend herself, but the older woman put up her hand to silence her. “You know I don’t care about what men care about when someone in injured. I’ll hear no excuses, girl.”

Erica had pouted. The salve that Melissa had left had made his back ache less. Erica rubbed it in slowly every night. 

The tavern was almost complete down by now, and Boyd had watched it shrink. Time was passing slowly towards an end he couldn’t see, and he didn’t mind. He could stay here for a long time, with Erica. He might build her a house, he thought, some place she could spend the coming winter. Maybe she’d let him live with her, and they could talk some more. He’d like that, a lot.

**Isaac**

Isaac’s breath frosted the air as he left his tent. It was going to be cold tonight, but it was his turn on sentry duty. He was used to the temperature anyway. While the chill would be remarkable for people who lived this far south, he’d spent many a late summer night on the cliffs above Beacon Hills. There would be the slightest rime of frost in the morning, vanishing quickly.

The army had camped in a valley, if you wanted to call it back. It was a very shallow depression, the bottom of it was slightly more than ten feet below the ridges. It was ringed by old forest though, and had two strong streams feeding it. It was a good place to rest before they made their next strike. While King Robb kept the bulk of his army together in order to harry Tywin and his generals, Greatjohn Umber had split off with a smaller force to retake the castles of Riverlands nobles which had been occupied by the Lannisters. 

For this particular campsite, Isaac’s fellow sentries had found a short, fat oak, with enough branches to make it an easy climb. The way the branches were arranged, a soldier could see this entire side of the camp and most of the tree line, but it would be hard for scouts — or invaders — to pinpoint the sentry’s position. They had even had broken a branch down to a nub on which they could hang the warning horn.

Even with guard duty in the night, life in the Northern Army wasn’t that bad. Isaac had the benefit of never being particularly homesick, unlike most of the other soldiers his age. They missed their homes and their families; he hadn’t missed his father one bit, and the only friends he had had back home were gone as well. Even when they had been drilled to the point of exhaustion, yelled at by knights and sergeants, Isaac could cope for it had all been impersonal. Anyway, he was hard worker, and so seldom in trouble for the officers appreciated it.

Unfortunately, Ser Noah had mentioned to the other knights that Isaac had been a grave digger before joining the army, so he had been placed in charge of one of the burial detail. When the battles were over, he’d dig the graves for the commoners and knights and prepare the bodies of any lords who died for the journey home. He worked well with the Silent Sisters, as he always had. The responsibility didn’t reward him with any rank, but it did keep him from the front lines. During battles, he stayed with the rearguard. 

He didn’t miss being out in front at all. He didn’t feel like some young men might have, that he was being deprived of a chance to show his mettle. He had been around death for so long that he had no illusions about it. He had joined the army because it offered him a way out of the chains of family that threatened to choke him. He was useful; he was fed; he was seeing the world. Who was he to complain that he didn’t get to be a hero?

The only downside was that he still had to stand sentry when there was no one to bury. It could be lonely and boring, but he was used to it.

Brian sighed in relief as Isaac approach the tree. “I was beginning to think you would never show.”

“It isn’t even eight bells yet, I’m early!”

The other soldier huffed. “Eight bells hasn’t rung?”

“No, they haven’t.” Isaac helped the man down out of the tree.

“Time slows to a crawl when you’re up there. Hard to stay awake.”

Isaac started to climb up. Everyone was careful not to fall asleep. That was a hanging offense.

Brian made to move away, but then stopped. “Do you think the war will be over soon?”

“How would I know?”

“I know, I know that you wouldn’t, but … well.”

“Well what?”

“I wonder what we have to do to go home.”

Isaac didn’t miss home but he could understand people who would. This wasn’t comfortable for them; in fact, life in the tents was distinctly uncomfortable. Battles weren’t uncomfortable, they were terrifying. No one talked about it openly, because they didn’t want to be seen as less than manly or less than loyal, but the carnage after every battle had shaken many of the younger boys to their core. It didn’t seem at all like the stories. 

Again, Isaac wasn’t surprised; he had seen death. 

“I mean, we marched south to save Lord Stark, but King Joffrey took his head.”

The other man breathed the words out quietly. He just wanted someone to talk to, someone with which to share his fear and his longing.

“What would you do if someone called your father a traitor and killed him? You have a sister, I remember — what if this same person had kidnapped your sister at the same time and planned to marry her?”

Brian frowned. 

“You would do what King Robb is doing, trying to get her back. The problem is that you could go to Ser Stilinski or Ser Whittemore or Lord Glover to get the justice you required. There is no one above King Joffrey. If King Robb wants his sisters back and he wants justice for his murdered father, he has to get it himself.”

Isaac leaned back on the tree and looked up at the crescent moon hanging in the sky. “We all want to go home, but this is how the world works — King Robb rules us and we owe him fealty. If we don’t, if it is every man for himself when things get tough, then we’re sheep, and people like King Joffrey are the wolves.”

Brian nodded. “Doesn’t stop me from wishing.”

“Yeah.” 

The other sentry stalked away, probably going to find a way to keep himself occupied. Isaac keep glancing up at the moon. Things could be a lot worse.

**Allison**

She took a deep breath in as she drew back her bow. As Allison aimed, she let half of that breath flow out past out her lips and then held the rest. The arrow flew to its target.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release. 

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

No one became a great hunter without first becoming a great archer. No one became a great archer without practice. Allison hadn’t been able to practice since she had left Beacon Hills in a great hurry months ago. It was long past time for her to get back to practice routine. 

Other houses mocked the Argents — though never within their hearing — for training their women in martial pursuits, but their scorn found no purchase with Allison. Women who couldn’t wield a weapon could still die on them. Women who couldn’t hunt for food could still starve. Women who couldn’t read a trail could still get lost in the wilderness. Women who thought it uncouth for their gender to know how to fight could still end up being defenseless.

She would never be one of those women. 

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

Allison frowned as she evaluated the groupings of arrows on the straw target. To the uninitiated, it would look impressive, but to her, they arrayed sloppily. This wouldn’t do at all, and she decided she would shoot a hundred arrows a day until she got back into correct form.

The daily practice would serve to help get her mind off other things as well. She was worried about her mother. There had been no communication between here and Winterfell, which wasn’t surprising since they were at war. Her father had advised Allison that even with the death of their patriarch, the Starks were honorable enough not to take it out on Victoria. Allison believed him — she did, having been around the Northern lords — but that didn’t make her want her mother back any less.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

The practice could also help her push away the thoughts that has been plaguing her about her aunt and what Allison’s actions meant for the house. What it meant for her position in the house. She had told her father about the death of Kate, but she had left out several details that she knew were important. The most important one she had neglected to share was that Allison had helped thwart her aunt’s murderous intentions towards the Hale bastard. She didn’t think her father would mind in the end; he was a knight in more than mere name. He would have found Lady Katherine’s plan repulsive.

Her grandfather, on the other hand, would definitely disapprove. Strongly. After all, the plan had been most likely his.

Allison was loyal to her family, but her loyalty had limits. She would never sell them out for her own advantage. She would never neglect her duties to them. But participating in a plot to murder her betrothed? There was a line she had drawn.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

Pull another arrow from the quiver. Inhale. Draw. Exhale. Release.

Allison knew that practice would help her with one final thing. Scott had started working in the stables, grooming the horses. They didn’t need another groom, but her father had insisted that he be put to work. A commoner living in the house of a noble and doing nothing might draw attention. Scott didn’t mind working with the horses; at least that’s what he told her when they had talked last.

The archery range, by happy coincidence, had been built across from the stables. Even now, while she was practicing, all she would have to do was turn her head and she might see him, perhaps taking a stallion through his paces. There was little use for horses until you needed to leave King’s Landing, yet if they were never exercised, they would be inferior or even ruined.

She was about to do that, turn her head to see if she could see Scott, when movement on her other side drew her attention. Her father was walking towards her, looking grimly serious. 

Suddenly, her heart quailed at his mien. Did he have bad news? Had something happened to her mother? She squashed down the urge to panic; she wasn’t that weak.

“What’s going on?” 

“Can I not come and watch my daughter hone her skill?” Her father always had terrible timing when he was attempting to be funny. He frequently came off as menacing or his humor was far too subtle. He would never be a gesture.

“I doubt that is the case, not with that look upon your face.”

Ser Christopher took her by the wrists in a reassuring gesture. “Nothing is amiss beyond what you and I have already suspected would be coming.”

“Grandfather has called you to the front.” 

The knight nodded slowly in an attempt to be consoling. “Surprisingly, the war isn’t going well. According to your grandfather, Robb Stark demonstrates an instinctual grasp of warfare and has earned the full support of his own men. His capture of Ser Jamie Lannister has boosted the morale of his vassal lords to significant levels. Our commanders had hope to thwart the Northerner’s advance until the harvest put pressure on them to return home.”

“Aren’t you needed here at court?”

“Gerard believes that too many of Lord Tywin’s established commanders treat the Northerners as clueless bumpkins even after they have proved themselves not to be such.”

Allison tilted her head in shock. She hadn’t seen them in battle, but she could tell from her time among them that the Northerners were fierce fighters and some of them were extraordinarily talented at it. Her father recognized the look on her head. 

“The Northerners aren’t as refined as the Southern armies at things like drills and setting up camp and keeping military discipline, so the less wise commanders equate them to undisciplined brutes. Your grandfather knows that I won’t make that mistake. I have to leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but then she nodded. She had to trust in her parents. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

Ser Christopher lifted one eyebrow in disbelief. “No!”

“You know I could help you.”

“Allison,” Christopher sighed. “I know you could definitely help me — there’s no one I trust more than you — but that’s not the only consideration I have to take into account. Your presence would cause dissension among many of my fellow knights and certainly among the commanders. Not because of any lack of skill on your part, but because they can’t see the value of a woman trained for battle. Things are too tense right now for me to risk it. You know I have faith in you.”

“If I can’t aid you in battle, then what can I do?”

The knight sighed. “I’m going to ask you to do the hardest thing I’ve ever asked you to do before. Attend court.”

Allison’s face must have revealed what she thought of that. Ser Christopher looked at her in sympathy. 

“Of course I will do it, father. But I won’t like it.”

“Nobody likes it.”


	3. The Night Lands (Part 1)

**Jackson**

“Chestnuts. I think they’re definitely chestnuts.”

Ser Jackson Whittemore sat astride his horse as he studied the trees in question. Through their branches, he could see the slate-gray of an overcast sky above. It was the warmest day so far since he had caught up with the army of the King in the North, and while he wasn’t unfamiliar with sweating inside his armor, it never felt pleasant. When the wind gusted through boughs of the tree, it cooled him, but not enough that he didn’t wish he could remove his gorget. He didn’t know why he was so hot; all he had been doing was riding around and directing troops.

Turning his attention back to the trees, he noted that they grew too close to the curtain wall. At many places, a sprightly lad could leap from a thick branch to the top of the wall itself. The castle should have fallen the moment the Lannister forces had arrived, but they didn’t have the heart in them to push the issue. Why risk themselves when they could starve Lady Smallwood and her retainers out? 

If Jackson could have his way, he would order the men to clear all these trees back from the walls. This would increase the line of sight for the watchtowers and decrease the chance that a surprise attack could take the castle. But he couldn’t order Lady Smallwood to do it; he couldn’t even bring it up to her. 

Not yet.

His father — his adopted father — was only a landed knight in a small fief on the edge of House Glover’s lands. As such, Jackson would never be invited to sit on the war council of the King. At best, he could request an audience and wait in line with everyone else.

On the other hand, if he was recognized as heir to the Hale family, as Jackson Hale, he would no longer be simply another knight. He’d be the head of a lordly house, minor, it was true, but also ancient and storied. He could parley that position into recognition and then that recognition into opportunity.

Ser Jackson sighed. More and more often, he found himself planning to build a roof without having put up walls yet. The end of his betrothal to Lady Allison of the equally minor but still important House Argent and the revelation of his true parentage has gotten his head all turned around. He was at war. Politics could wait. 

As if the Seven felt he needed a reminder of that, Ser Noah rode up beside him. Ser Jackson granted him a friendly nod; they had never spent much time together before things had become so complicated. Now, he would never be able to get Noah Stilinski to admit that the war was good for his family; the hedge knight’s son had been named Castellan of Beacon Hills. Ser Jackson found himself without a hint of jealousy for Stiles’ promotion and that was strange. For a long time, he had disliked Noah’s son, but the man had risked everything to save him from being murdered by his betrothed’s aunt. Even Jackson had to admit that changed things.

“So what did you think of your first battle?” Ser Noah asked, as the man turned to watch the soldiers of their command help clear away siege equipment. 

“This was a battle?” Jackson asked, skeptically. He was supposed to be watching the troops as well, keeping an eye out for anything that could be salvaged for the war. Most of the equipment had been cobbled together before the walls, as half-assed as the siege had been. There wouldn’t much chance of finding anything of value in this pile of refuse.

“Yes, it was.” Ser Noah squinted at him in good humor. “We had people on our side with swords and they had people on their side with swords.”

“They ran off the moment they saw us coming over the rise. No one had a reasonable chance to swing those swords.”

“And that, Ser Jackson, is a good thing.” The hedge knight chuckled as if it were a fine joke. “We liberated Acorn Hall, which is a tiny, relatively unimportant castle in the Riverlands, which happens to be neither tiny nor unimportant. We did it without suffering a single casualty.”

He hesitated before replying; he didn’t want the older man to think he was thirsty for blood. “Neither did they.”

“It would be foolish for us to deny what we know to be the truth — the enemy has far more men than we do. Every victory that we achieve without losing a soldier helps us far more than it helps them.”

“The River Lords are rising to join us. Their troops will be added to ours.” At Noah’s glance, Jackson protests. “I’m not saying I desire the death of anyone.”

“Never said you do, my friend.”

“I know I’m younger, but it seems to me that if we want to force the throne to give us our independence and return Lord Stark and his daughters to Winterfell, we need to make the war as painful as possible for them. They have more men than we do. Winter weather will come far sooner for our supply lines than for theirs. Stalling us is to their advantage.”

“You might be right, so what do you wish to do? Punish them every chance we get?”

“Yes. Hit them hard; hit them often. Time is not on our side.”

Ser Noah rubbed his chin with his hand, resting the other one on his saddle. He seemed to be thinking carefully about how he wanted to say something. Jackson let him stew. 

Before the knight could find his words, the entourage of House Smallwood emerged from their keep, a small squad of defenders surrounding their lady. Lord Tallhart, the commander of this detachment, rode to meet Lady Smallwood. Since Ser Jackson and Ser Noah had been assigned to serve as his seconds, it was meet that they joined him. They would seek to be polite and secure the Lady’s allegiance to the King of the North. 

The lady did not have to be persuaded. Immediately, she invited them in to dine with her and opened her storehouses for the troops. It was a pleasant welcome, and more pleasant than it needed to be. Lady Smallwood was loyal to Riverrun and intended to demonstrate it. Ser Jackson did not drink the wine she offered them; Ser Noah didn’t either. Lord Tallhart did, but he couldn’t very well refuse. There was no suspicion towards their hostess, but there was always a chance that the Lannister forces could return. Ser Noah even arose in the middle of the feast to check to make sure the pickets were placed right. 

It wasn’t until late and the evening and they finally were able to return to their tent that Jackson got the chance to ask the question that had bothered him all through the day. Ser Jackson sat down on the cot; there were only two of them in the tent. It wasn’t as crowded as the tents back at the main camp, and Ser Noah did not stay with him. 

“This afternoon, what were you going to say, ser?” 

“Hmmmm?” 

“When I said that time is not on our side, you seemed that you were going to say something more, yet you didn’t.”

Ser Noah slid off one boot, but instead of dropping it, put it carefully down on the ground. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, with the same patient consideration he had that afternoon. 

“Don’t take my words as a rebuke. I mean no scorn. But you’re thinking as a loyal knight, of strategies and victory. No wrong in that. What you forget is that they’re not only enemy soldiers, they are also people. You’ve been a knight for three years; I’ve been a knight for twenty-three. You’ve always served the same lord; I haven’t. When I was younger, I moved from castle to castle, selling my sword because I had to do it to live, and I met many soldiers during the war. They’re always the same — a few months earlier, these soldiers had been farmers, millers, and tavern-keepers. They’re doing this because someone more powerful than them told them they had to. I’m not sure any of the soldiers even now clearly understand what the conflict between the North and the Throne means; hell, I’m not sure I do completely. They’re not the enemy, and I know we can’t defeat the Lannisters without killing their troops, but I don’t feel right taking pleasure in it.”

Ser Jackson frowned. He watched as the older knight made ready to retire. Finally, he broke the silence. “I don’t take pleasure in it.”

“Hmmm?”

“When the wildings threatened Beacon Hills, I killed one of them. I didn’t take pleasure in it.”

“I know. I was there, remember? I can tell when a man does.”

The memory of the wildling woman — threatening him with a spear — who had come raiding south of the Wall. He had killed her and it had been easy to perform but harder to stomach.

“I also killed men at the Wall, when I was with your son.”

That got Ser Noah’s attention. “Lady Katherine’s men.”

“Yes. I didn’t enjoy it either.”

The older knight tilted his head to the side and then rolled over and pulled the blankets over him. “Maybe I’ve had too much wine, but who are you trying to convince, Ser Jackson? Blow out the lantern when you’re ready.”

It only took Jackson a few minutes to douse the light, but he didn’t go to sleep for many hours.

**Allison**

“Please sit still, Lady Allison.” The handmaid chided her, her frustration making her momentarily forget her place. The woman’s hands pulled at her hair sharply and she winced. “It won’t look right if I can’t pin them evenly.”

Allison bit back on her anger; she had been impatient and fidgety. She replied with only the barest hint of command. “I’ll try my best.” 

She was bored; she had spent most of the morning getting ready for her first appearance at court, and it would honestly be not much of one. No one of any importance would be there today, but perhaps she might brush up against the people she would need to know. To be successful, she would have to fit in; she was not yet interesting enough or powerful enough to scorn the fashions of the day.

Even this outrageously ornate hairstyle. Even the flowing, filmy gown of soft green.

Allison called upon the discipline she had learned while and sat perfectly still. She wasn’t in the woods, however. She was in her own quarters, and the tools of the handmaid’s trade were spread out on the table around her. Combs, brushes, dyes, and pins. It was a far more elaborate ritual than dressing down a deer. Time passed and finally Allison felt the woman’s hands leave her head. 

“Are you done?”

“Yes, my lady,” replied the handmaid, satisfied with what she had created. 

“Then leave me.” 

Allison know she shouldn’t be so brusque with the handmaid. The woman had come highly regarded, since her mother was no longer here to help her prepare. Allison felt like she had been trapped in this room for hours. She stood up and went before the mirror in order to see how she looked. Even she could tell that the handmaid had done excellent work, as she turned her head from side to side. Allison looked now like she belonged at court, from the way her pale skin stood out in stark contrast to the forest green silk to the way the silver rings on her fingers called back to the name of her House.

She hated the idea that she would have to spend even longer in the Red Keep among all the noblewomen. Those high-born ladies would offer to be her friends, but they were either caged birds or hidden vipers. They looked pretty, but in the end they were either useless or poisonous. 

At the same moment she had that unkind thought, she caught her own eye in the mirror. She remembered that those weren’t her words; those were Kate’s. Kate was the one who hated the very idea of going to court. She had taught Allison to despise other noblewomen from other houses. It was understandable; they looked down at the Lady Katherine because she acted in many ways like a man, and, in turn, she hated them right back for being unable to do so. 

But Allison had learned in the North that she didn’t want to become Kate. That meant, as uncomfortable and intimidating as it could be, she would have to learn for herself what the royal court was like. What her aunt had said may have been true, but she had to make sure of that for herself.

So, as a test for her new role, she pirouetted in the mirror. She did appreciate the way the dressed flowed over her body, though she’d never have chosen such a gown before. She went to the door and called for Ulrich. Allison knew he would be lurking out there, waiting to give her some instruction on the latest forms of etiquette. She never had paid much attention as she should have to those lessons while she was growing up. As expected, the steward entered the room before she could even return to the mirror.

“I must say, Lady Allison, you look splendid.”

“Thank you, but you have always told me that I looked splendid since I was a little girl.” She mocked him, but good-naturedly. “I feel the need to have someone else’s opinion.” 

“I could find the septa?”

“No, thank you. I think I want to talk to my friend.”

“Your … friend?”

“Scott? The man who traveled with me from Beacon Hills?”

Ulrich frowned. “With all due respect, my lady, I don’t know if a Dornishman—”

“His parents are Dornish, but he was raised in the North.” 

The steward struggled to remain polite in his words. “That does not lessen my concern about whether he would be the proper judge of court attire.”

“I have no doubt about your judgment, Ulrich, and I don’t doubt the skills of that handmaiden. I want Scott’s opinion because he’s never seen me in a dress like this. Can you understand that?”

The man remained unconvinced but he bowed. “I shall return as quickly as I can, my lady.”

She gathered her dress beneath as she sat down on a chair by the bed, waiting for him to come. She wanted someone that she knew would be honest, who wouldn’t praise her for just being who she was. That’s exactly why she wanted Scott to see her like this. There were no other reasons.

“No other reason,” she said aloud to the empty room.

There was a knock on the door and her heart fluttered clumsily into her throat. She coughed to get rid of it. “Enter.”

“Milady,” Scott kept his head bowed slightly, already picking up on the proper deportment for servants in the south. He was dressed in the breeches and tunic of a stable hand, but she could tell it was him. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did. That will be all, Ulrich.” 

The steward took one more disapproving look at both of them before closing the door. 

“So, my father had to leave.”

Scott nodded, without looking at her directly. He’d obviously been told about Ser Christopher’s departure.

“Unfortunately that means that I have to attend court as a representative of my house and report on the events there to my father and my grandfather.”

“You get to go to court?” Scott asked, his eyes widening as they sought out hers involuntarily. “Where the king will be?”

“Maybe. I don’t know how often King Joffrey attends court.” She stood up now that he was looking at her. While the excitement about the idea of going to court vanished, his eyes widened even more, which she didn’t think possible. His mouth opened a little bit and he seemed struck dumb. 

“I take it you like my dress.”

Scott stuttered for a minute and then nodded enthusiastically while blushing.

Allison liked his reaction, but she acted as if she didn’t notice it. “It’s not what I usually wear, but I can’t really go to the Red Keep in hunting leathers.” She’d been flattered before. She’d been pursued before. But every man who had seemed either banal or insincere. These men, nobles all, would trying to entertain her, offering to dance or reciting poetry. Yet she was sure that they were simply doing as they had been raised to do, and their efforts had never touched her heart in any way. If she had been pressed into saying why, she probably would think that their behavior made her feel like prey. She was the hunter, and she did not like being stalked.

Scott did not make her feel this way, because he had no mask for her. She had watched him cough while taking his medicine. She had watched him tend to a horse’s leg. She had watched him haul firewood and a hundred other mundane things. She had spent so much time with him when they were simply two people trying to survive, that when he looked at her now like she was the Maiden incarnate, she could tell it was real. 

Scott seemed close to have a coughing fit at that moment. “No, no you shouldn’t.” He took a step away and put his hands behind his back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Uhm.”

“Come on, you can tell me.”

“Well.” Scott looked her straight in the eyes. “I was mucking out the stables when Ulrich came to get me. I like … I must smell like dung. I know I have it under my fingernails.”

Allison laughed. “Well, that happens.”

“I shouldn’t be anywhere near you.” 

The laughter died on her lips. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” It scared her a little how quickly that came out. She had definitely been flirting.

It scared Scott as well. “I … I think that everyone else would say that I shouldn’t be here … with you … now … in this place.” 

“And what do you say?”

Scott took a step towards her. “I say … that we’re in your father’s house surrounded by your family’s servants. It would be foolish for me to want be where you are, to see you like this. It’s just as foolish here as it was at home. But … I’m not disappointed I’m still here, where you are. I don’t think I’d ever be disappointed to be where you are.”

They looked at each other, solemnly. Allison’s heart was doing that fluttering thing again. 

“And, yes. I liked that dress very much. If I can be excused, milady.” 

“Of course.”

She watched him leave.

**Derek**

The Wall was quiet. No sign of any passage on or below the Bridge of Skulls had been reported for days, and the Great Ranging had departed weeks ago. All the members of the Night’s Watch remaining at the Shadow Tower could do with their time until that force returned was man the fortifications and wait.

This left Derek Hale, Steward of the Shadow Tower, with no more excuses. He had put this unpleasant task off for far too long.

All the buildings on the dark stone monolith had been built with timber from the forest below on ledges carved out of the natural monolith, save for the rookery on the very top of the column and the two cells in the heart of the stone. As these prison cells had been formed from a deep natural schism, they never received light from outside. This required Derek to carry a torch as he slowly walked down the passageway. A slow pace was necessary as the sharper edges of the rock had been left alone during the cells’ construction. They had never been worn round because there hadn’t been much call to use them since the Tower had been built thousands of years ago.

Most crimes committed by a man of the Night’s Watch were resolved with extra duties, with corporeal punishment, or with death. The Watch had neither the time nor the inclination to keep prisoners for the long term. As the centuries passed, more and more of the Brothers had once been criminals seeking to avoid the consequences for their crimes. Justice among them needed to be swift, sure and hard. 

So the cells were used mostly for outsiders. Outsiders such as the one that Derek had stalled going to see. This was not going to be a happy reunion, but even as he braced himself, he yearned for it. He took a deep breath and stepped into the line of sight of the cell.

His uncle was sitting at a table with a candle. Prisoners couldn’t escape by using fire, for if they started one in their cell, the only thing they would burn would be themselves. 

“Thank you for the loan of the books, Derek. This was going to be a very boring wait without them.” Peter said without looking up from the pages.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I may be imprisoned, but my hearing is quite good. The footsteps of anyone approaching this cell echo quite loudly; I’m never taken by surprise when they come to feed me or take my shit bucket.” His voice was wry. “When you came, you walked confidently down the hallway, yet you hesitated before you turned the corner. That means you’re not scared of me doing anything to you, but you’re still worried about talking to me. The only person in the Night’s Watch who would fit that description would be you.”

Derek sighed. Peter has always been brilliant and had always loved to demonstrate his brilliance. “I thought you were dead.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Derek didn’t shout. He wanted to scream out his hatred and his love to Peter. 

“So, that’s why you abandoned our lands to the Argents?”

Derek stared at the back of Peter’s head. “Look at me.”

Peter sighed and closed his book. With overelaborate determination, he stood turned his chair around and sat down facing Derek through the bars. “I’m looking.”

“When the fire was over and I thought my entire family was destroyed, when I could speak again, when I could make myself concerned with anything other than the ashes below the moon, I asked myself one question — who would do such a thing? Who would burn innocent men, women and children like that?” 

Peter shook his head. “You were always a fool.”

“Before I could answer that question, I was summoned to Winterfell. I was on my way there when I finally wondered why. Everyone knew by then that the fire was set, and they would ask themselves who benefited from it being set? I would.”

“And your beloved wife.”

Derek couldn’t deny it. Peter’s words were designed to hurt and hurt they did. “Yes. So I just kept riding north until I got to the Wall. There was no reason to defend my marriage, my name or my family.”

“I told you not to trust her. I told your mother that the marriage was a bad idea. I knew that Gerard’s reputation was more than just peasant gossip. But did anyone listen?”

“No.”

“Actually, Alan listened.”

“Is that why you’re alive?” 

“Yes. It is also why Laura and Cora are alive.”

Derek stood up out of the chair so quickly it fell backwards. “They are? Where?”

“Why could you possibly think that I would tell you?” Peter scowled. “So you can betray them as well?”

Derek sat down. “I did not betray them.”

“Yes, you did. I’m not talking about you being fooled by Lady Katherine’s beautiful blond hair. I’m talking about the clothes you wear.”

There was silence between them. Derek looked at his hands, covered in black. He looked at his cloak. “The Night’s Watch …”

“The Night’s Watch,” sneered Peter, “is a place for traitors, murderers, and noble boys who serve no purpose to their houses. Do any of those things apply to you?”

Derek bent down and picked up his chair. “So you wanted me to rule as Lord Hale in our burned-down home over the remains of the family I destroyed.”

“I would have had you protect our legacy! House Hale is older than the Starks! There are few families that can trace their blood back to before the Andals came, and in your wallowing selfishness, you condemned that lineage to oblivion!”

“But I didn’t!” Derek shot back. “You’re still alive. Laura’s still alive. Cora’s still alive. And you have at least two bastards!” 

“You didn’t know that.”

Derek looked down. “No, I didn’t know that. So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Look at my face, Derek.” The scars were hideous. Peter Hale could be considered an attractive man still if someone looked at him from only one side. “I cannot really remember how I got Laura and Cora out of that death trap, but I did. I remember the pain though. I vaguely remember Alan putting us in a boat. He meant for us to sail to the Rills until he could get help from Winterfell, but I knew we would never be safe anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. If House Argent received the slightest news of our survival, Lady Katherine wouldn’t be the only assassin they employed. So I went to the one place the Argents would never think to look.”

“Beyond the Wall,” breathed Derek. 

“Yes. Six years it took to recover my strength. Six years it took to master the arts of our family. While you squandered your life manning a half-empty castle, I taught Cora and Laura everything they needed to know to survive. And I plotted to get the vengeance for our family that you … _refused_ in your misery.”

Derek frowned. “Well, you succeeded in that, didn’t you?”

“Succeeded?” Peter laughed. “House Argent still lives. It still thrives. Nothing is done, do you hear me? Nothing!”

The Steward stood. He might be a coward for taking the Black, but his uncle was mad. “You know you’re done. You’ll not take any more revenge. I may be able to get the Lord Commander to spare your life, but you’ll join the Black like me to do it. Will you tell me how to get in touch with Laura and Cora?”

Peter had calmed. “I overheard something about a Great Ranging.”

Derek nodded. 

“Then the Lord Commander will most likely see your sisters before you do.” 

Tension hung in the air as the two men stared at each other. Derek felt the cold for the first time. If they were with the King Beyond the Wall, they were in incredible danger. He turned and left the cells.

**Scott**

They very next time that Scott was free from his duties — and that was the very next day, because once again, they didn’t really need another stable hand at the Argent mansion — he left his quarters to walk the streets of King’s Landing. He had to get away from the memory of Lady Allison in her green dress, because, as they talked about couture and court, it really seemed like she was promising other things, and he could feel his soul thrilling to those promises. These secret promises, real or not made him feel undeniably good even as his own wisdom told him that they were undeniably bad. Regardless of whether they were real or not, things were confused.

“It’s a huge mess.”

He had spent the whole evening thinking about her and her dress and quite a bit of the night as well. He wanted — no, he needed — to think about something else now, so he picked a random direction once out the servant’s door and headed off into the city. The mood on the streets had dimmed considerably since he had first arrived to the capital. In fact, as he walked, he seemed to feel an undercurrent of anger. He didn’t know if something had happened, for he didn’t talk much with the other servants about what was going on in the city. It hadn’t entered his mind to gossip.

It struck him that there was almost too much to do in the city, yet everything was so very expensive. In Beacon Hills, the most money Scott had ever held in his pocket was a single silver stag, and with that he could have probably bought enough food for a month at the traders on the Cliffside Road. Here, that same stag might feed him for a week, or given him lodging, but not both. There were shops selling everything from weapons to tackle to clothing to musical instruments. He wouldn’t know what to do with most of the things he could buy here. It was almost overwhelming.

His heart sank as he realized that this was the world in which Lady Allison lived. When the pair of them had stopped by the shops when they first arrived in King’s Landing, she had been so confident in her dealings with the merchants. If Scott had tried to buy something and the merchant was unethical, he’d probably get gouged as a yokel. 

Lady Allison wouldn’t think twice about coming to these shops and buying anything here from the wealth of her family. Scott would be lucky to afford some meat on a stick from one of the vendors.

“Damn it.” He said aloud. He’d gone on this walk to stop thinking of the lady in question. 

He pushed on turning a random corner and going down a brand new street. On this new street, the lamps all had banners of different colored cloth hanging off it. Each street had signs like that; there street where you could buy weapons had knives hanging on the lamps. Yet, they didn’t seem to be selling anything here, though there were a lot of men walking up and down the street, going into out of buildings.

Scott found himself walking behind two members of the city watch, which the other servants at the mansion called them Gold Cloaks. He felt himself blushing. He had wondered why they had called them that only to realize it was because they actually work golden-colored cloaks. It’s the type of slow thinking that Stiles would tease him about unmercifully. Stuffing down the homesickness and guessing that they knew the city far better than he would, he decided to follow them. 

They approach a wide, low building with large windows, entering a courtyard. It was filled with flowers and trees, one of the few spots of greenery in the entire capital.

A woman with a veil stormed out of the house itself. She was graceful and provocatively dressed with long black hair, but the veil completely obscured her face. “No. Out! You aren’t coming in here.”

The Gold Cloaks were taken aback. “Mistress Jennifer, you know our coin is good!”

“The Gods take your coin and you and throw you into the sea! I heard what you did to Mhaegan’s child at the Dove’s Nest!” The woman was fearless in her scolding even though the men wore chainmail and were carrying swords. “I’ll have none of you in my house until I deem it moot!”

“We had nothing to do with that! We weren’t even on duty.” One of the Gold Cloaks complained.

“It doesn’t matter to me. None of my girls will be comfortable with you here. Now you go home to your wives and get them to put out, or you take this off …” She gestured angrily to their uniforms. “And then you can come back. Off, off you go.”

The men grumbled as they went on their way, but the woman firmly saw them out. She then turned to Scott. “Now young man, what do you want?”

“Uh.” Scott could sound intelligent when he put his mind to it.

“Are you coming in or not?” She swept back and ushered Scott in.

Scott paused once he stepped into the door. There was one of these in Beacon Hills. This was a brothel. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. I … was just following them.”

The woman put her hands on her hips. “You seem a little dull to be lying. Do you usually follow the city watch into a whorehouse?”

“No! I didn’t know what it was.”

“No shame in that, but I’m sure we have something for your interest. Lovely girls or boys, depending on your preference. We’re still quality, even if we’re not one of Lord Baelish’ houses.”

“Uh. No. I was just …” Scott felt panic. “I wasn’t looking for that.”

She tilted her head, studying and then laughed. “What are you looking for then?”

Scott felt it come to him — an answer he would never share: A way to stop wanting what I can’t have. 

“I … I … I’d like some wine. And someone to tell me about the city?” 

The veiled woman laugh. “You’ll be the easiest customer I’ve ever had. Welcome to the Grove of the Crone. I’m Jennifer. I’ll be glad to be your teacher.”


	4. Chapter 4

**This fiction has been abandoned. Spoilers for Game of Thrones Season 8 below.**

Given the misogynistic, racist, and narrative mess that Season 8 of Game of Thrones has turned out to be, I can't really conceive of me continuing to write this series. The writers of the television series didn't just make a mis-step, they took themes, characterizations, and common sense, lit them all on fire, and tossed them out a window.

Foreshadowing is not character development. If you want me to believe that Daenerys would burn a million people alive, you need to do more than show her being angry that one of her closest friends were executed, upset that the man she's fallen in love with suddenly has a better (and unsubstantiated) claim on the throne than she does and refuses to listen to her, mourning that she had to help put one of her children down and seen another get the callously murdered, after she has never harmed a powerless commoner in her life, and say 'well, her madness is hereditary.' If you want me to believe that Jon Snow just stood there while her sisters acted like total shits to the people coming to save their asses, that he'd completely miss the stress that Daenerys was under, that Davos would join him in just passively staring all the time, I'm going to need you not to try to place him on the Iron Throne. If you want me to believe that Varys would try to poison Daenerys and plot against her the episode after she helped saved the world from the Night King, you're going to need to spend more time on it. As we begin the last episode, I am absolutely sure that they're going to turn the Unsullied into villains. After all, the idea that maybe rulers should be acclaimed by the people if they don't rule themselves can't possibly come from those Eastern (Essos) brown people. It has to come from the noble white heroes of the West (Westeros).

What they did to Daenerys, Jon, Varys, Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Davos has been the equivalent of Scott turning to the pack and going "Kill them all" after his mother got shot. It would have been so jarring and out of character that people would have been scrambling to find the evil witch behind the curtains. But there's no evil witch.

And Jaime. Don't talk to me about Jaime. 

The premise of this series was always going to the price extracted on the common folk and the petty nobility (the TW cast) when the Great Houses played their Game of Thrones. Scott, Stiles, Allison and the others were never going to usurp the position of the Game of Thrones characters. They were going to complete their stories in contrast to the Great Game. My plan for Scott was for him to become an advocate for Daenerys' Breaking of the Wheel -- i.e. ending feudalism where power isolates those who possess it from the rule of law. 

I suspect that in the finale, the Wheel will be broken, but by characters who have never talked about reform or even the Wheel's existence, once in 72 episodes. Suddenly, they'll all become Supporters of Truth and Justice and Fairness for all, pointing about the dangers of the Wheel, with their example being the Mad Queen who burned a million people alive -- who was the only person every to take actual steps to stop said Wheel. 

Fuck them.

If there ever comes a day when I can see my way to the end, I might restart it. Until then? Nope.


End file.
